


stay

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [7]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dramatic Irony, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Musing, Narrator's POV, Nostalgia, Retrospective, Second Person, Time - Free Form, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world through Harry Osborn's eyes: Prep school. A straying subconscious. Escapism masqueraded as retail therapy. A hairstyling session from Peter Parker. A coffee date with Spiderman. And a secret fanboy moment, interrupted by the last person he'd hoped to see. [Companion piece to Peter's POV fic, always (to us). Can be read separately, but is suggested to be read after Peter's piece, in their respective theopolis series order.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	stay

 

> _“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”_
> 
> _—            Mary Shelley, Frankenstein_

* * *

 

You ever felt like such a fuck up? some boy was asking you in the locker room, short, ear-length blonde hair slicked with sweat, soccer jersey and pants coated in splats of mud and tuffs of grass. He was sitting on the bench across from you, taking off his sneakers.

You looked up, mildly surprised and annoyed (no one bothered to strike up a conversation with the boy who'd had a wing named after him and was exiled—correct term to use—to live there by himself). You'd barely played, but the day's humidity caused the jersey to stick to your skin, beads of sweat popping up on your back. Your pants felt dirty, and your shoes—  
Nike, air. You'd picked them up two months ago in Boston, the closest you were able to reach a major city which was not the City.—

(Don't you bother coming back here, you heard his voice, booming and resolute as the day he'd banished you off. Norman. You rejected the term long before you could remember. It was decided, final. You'd never call him that. You'd never call him what he was supposed to be, because he wasn't. What did you do—what sins did you commit—what deeds were you guilty of—to share familial bond with him, to have his blood, his fucking infected genetics in your veins. To carry the Oscorp burden and be left alone in the mansion while he pranced around laboratories, pleasing stakeholders day by day. He had his reasons, a nanny used to say, a lie to content children before they went to sleep. You'd never believed, because you had yours. You were stuck with him, the way other kids were blessed with loving, soft-spoken, gentle parents who fawned over them, and you were stuck with him.)—were mixed in with dust and grass.

You let it slide. Maybe the boy was making a mistake. Trying to talk to the wall, the floor, or some shit. You could let this go, and leave. Just leave.

No more words, and you could continue your life, he could continue his.

Separate ways. You'd learned early not to fall into people's lives too easily. Impressions existed, and so did words which cemented certain unshakeable reputations in people's minds. Always this one thing for every single action, went the quote in the Pirandello play you had to study for English last term. People judged, people lied, people stole. Hypocrites, the lot of them. Thieves and pretenders in their real skin that were actually Greek dramatic masks. Nobody understood, because nobody did really want to understand. That shady old bag in the counselor's office, Mrs. M, of whatever her adoring pack of followers had taken to calling her these days, with her quivering, irritating as fuck voice, and the skin of a toad for a face, was in it for the dough. Asking you questions like she did care. Did anyone ever. Did anyone bother to have the time.

You'd taken off your sneakers when the boy spoke again, and the words rang in your ears.

'Course not, he raised a hand, shrugging, Why did I—you're it. You're him. An Osborn. Living the easy life. What would you understand?

But you did. Because that's exactly what you were—a fuck up. Exactly.

A fuck up. A child from hell. The unwanted. A robot would have served him better, be tailored and tinkered to every one of his specific inclinations, needs, and ideals. Had automatic, satisfying, downright, unarguably correct (never wrong, never, ever, ever wrong. You hated the word. You wanted it gone, ceased. You were with him for eleven years of your life, but wrong—even the gist of it—would be tattooed under your skin, invisible to no one's eyes but yours, burning at moments no one could sense but you.) responses to his questions. He was never there, and he never listened when he was. Called you a disappointment, a fuck up, over every little mistake you made. He'd stormed in, the days when his experiments failed to progress according to plan—you could read the events in his eyes—and dumped his frustrations on you.

Barely had chances to stay in the same room with him. You tried, when you were little and naive and stupid enough. He waved a hand, and a nanny whisked you away. You grew up. He cared less. You learned to live without compliments and moral support. He learned to mould you into some idealistic poster child for science.

You called Peter, sometimes. Okay, every night. Phone calls when the house was quiet and no one was up. Sneaked out past your nanny's sleeping form to pick up the phone and dial.

His voice was like an oasis, like the rare spring of fresh, cooling water in the middle of the desert, soothing, a miracle cure for your aching throat, a heated soup for your starving heart. He asked, you answered. He pondered, you ranted. He listened, you screamed. Poured yourself out.

Don't expect me to be a cushion for your emotions, boy. Guess who. Father of the Year. Your luck that you had Peter—and the phone, and time on your side. Nights when Norman was away and days when he worked long hours.—The Peter who listened, The Peter who stayed.

Your therapist chided you, and you turned away, rolled on your back on that long sofa in the room where the tick, tick, tick of the clock meant more to you than the brainwashing words she kept feeding into your brain. Do this, do that. You'll never get a friend unless you behave yourself, her voice cut through the air, Believe me, (But wasn't that what they always say, adults? Believe me. Believe me. Two words, and they expected docile children to follow them into a web of lies, thinking words could shape rainbows out of thin air and a thunderstorm would be solved by a song. Believe me. When their words were immaterial, imaginary. Constructs of the mind and persuasion borne out of sheer will for fate to follow their ways. Adults.) no one would want a friend like you.

But I have a friend, you retorted, eyes bright, hands balled into fists. A friend. One. A teacher had said you were headstrong, stubborn, and you'd clung to that as your personal armor.

Peter was your cushion when that armor faltered, when you had to escape, take shelter from reality.

You could never please Norman enough, to his liking. You were the defect, the disappointment, and you were his only son. (Go figure.)

Peter was there, and you'd never had to please him. More of him putting up with you. You'd said words you regretted. Acted the way you refused to admit happened. But you wouldn't take them back, none of them. You two would fight, and he'd come back the next day—he'd always come back. You had urges to apologize, but the word only occasionally left your lips. Silly things he'd gotten you into, absurd antics, and you wanted to settle. You wanted to stay.

You snorted, and the boy turned his eyes on you. Emerald green. You took in his wiry frame. An angular face with high cheekbones. Pinched nose, wide mouth. Full lips. Scars on his right knee and a tattoo of a half moon on the back of his left wrist, the size of a dime.  
Pretty impressive, compared to the rest of the jocks here, actually.

You've no idea how many times I've heard that, you replied, voice thin, Too bad I can't help you with your little problem.

The slightest, slightest hint of devil-may-care venom in your tone, and he sprang to his feet, took two long steps and he was in front of you.

What did you say, Oz? (they all called you that way, you'd heard. All shortened, mangled version, the remains of a name. Yours. They'd made it a point to. Tear down the power unit, the famous, so called celebrity status you didn't earn. You took it in stride. You hid. You were left alone. Mostly. Private classes, private dining hall, private wing, private room. Personal space, boundaries, and privacy spelled out in giant fucking capital letters outlining the months of your life within the Massachusetts-based prep school's fences. Everything private and reserved for a single student. Everything, except the goddamn physical education. You'd gotten passes, of course. They'd let you off the hook a couple of times. Then there was today. A substitute coach who couldn't comprehend the meaning of you being a "regular observer,” (read: you were studying physical education, not necessarily doing it. A flawed argument, but who was there to argue? Under normal circumstances, generally speaking.) and did order you to change (brand new, unworn soccer jersey and pants, again Nike, that you shopped out of necessity, just to complete the back-to-school set. Because the store clerk suggested you did. Because you wanted to indulge. Because this other credit card—out of the ten you had in your wallet—needed using.) and to play. You kicked the ball, listless, watched the rounded object skid around the grass. Ran when you were called on. Received the ball from a reluctant teammate who wasn't a teammate (you were forced into an already existing team, a player kicked out for this specific game. The team members weren't especially friendly with you otherwise.) and paused, balking on continuing. They stood, surrounded you, shouted. You shrugged. Waited to be kicked out. Same old. Same old. The coach knew about you, the dumb subsitute didn’t. His bad luck.)

He snatched you up by the collar of your jersey. Pinned you against the locker, and you raised both hands, surrendering.

I said—your lips twisted into a grin, Can’t help you. Sorry.

And you were sorry. Kind of. Sorry that he wasn’t in here earlier. Sorry he’d started talking to himself aloud first, and roping you in without your consent. Sorry he’d picked you up at your mild (yeah) taunting words. Sorry there was no distance between you two now.

Not sorry about his problem, whatever it was. Not at all.

He stared at you, blinked. You breathed, waited.

Come on.

_Come on._

_Say, or do. Your move. Your turn._

Before you make a move. Before you make that move.

You'd never (honest to God, never) been afraid. Of these boys, seriously? You had bodyguards at your wing and on speed dial. You knew Norman wasn't the best at Parenting Your Only Son & Heir 101, but he wouldn't risk you endangering your life. It's his company, it's his blood, much as it was yours. But boys. Fists and temper tended to explode, with blatant disregard to time. Pulsing, heated teenage hormones and the tendency to resolve conflicts by fighting. Who could blame them? Or you?

Then there was you already singled out—as him, an Osborn, running to his bodyguards or his daddy (the fucking childish term.) whenever you couldn't put up a fight on your own.

Like you cared. As if you did.

(Not even close.)

You'd been hit once, a memory scarred in your mind, that you'd pushed so far back it was lost in limbo. The bottomless black pits of your personal archive. You kissed first. (You made the first move, solum semel vivis.) He struck, retaliated. You staggered back, hand on cheek, stared. He shook his head and walked away, muttering curses. You were ruined, you knew, natural consequences, subsequent events, cliques and words of mouth. A stunt like that could go one way or another. You'd never been shy to taking risks, when you knew you'd have a chance to gain, to have. It happened, and they forgot. You hung around your wing, and they forgot. In time, they'd had a new scandal to gossip about.

You're so..., he licked his lips, beads of sweat on his forehead. His eyes caught light when he'd gotten close (it was a little past noon). So fucking...

He was stammering, sentences broken, punctuated by ellipses, and you knew. Your heart took a five second dip on that four hundred feet tall roller coaster, and you knew you could.

So...what? you were smiling up at him now, probably too cheerful for the situation at hand, but what the hell. He was half a head taller. Just the right size.

Because this was the moment. This was your chance. This was you taking advantage of the opportunity to act, to have some damn fun for yourself, in this tedious dreariness of a school. You had money, you had space. It's the growing urges to feel, to be touched, be fucked, that you lacked. Carnal, yes. Possible to dismiss? No.

(Ask those nights when it was you and the fucking dildo in your ass. Riding it. Getting fucked. Short gasps. Eyes shut. Imagining. Imagining. It had to be him. It always was him in your mind. Him touching you. Those lips sucking your off. And you'd wonder how he was now. What he'd look like. If puberty had done him some good. That sweet, obliging introvert to your bitter, greedy extrovert. Imagining him inside you, slamming into you. Making you cry out his name. Beg him for more. Faster, harder. He'd worry if you could take it, poor thing. No, no, you'd tell him, Give me all you got. Guide his hands to your aching cock. Fuck me, and fuck me hard, make me come, you'd say, Come on, don't disappoint me, Peter. And he would. He fucking would. He cared, so sweet of him. He cared, and you needed him. Needed him now. (But you had to cut yourself off, cut the City off. And he was but a part of it. So you didn't call.) Probably more than he would ever need you. You'd collapse on the bed when it's done, come on your hands, disintegrated and dazed, blood rushing in your head. You'd lay, sweating and unsatisfied. Open your eyes and discover, not for the first time, that he wasn't there with you in the room. When, asked your mind. Why, replied your heart.)

So—

One word, and his lips crushed onto yours, a hand slid down to your waist, and you offered yourself up to him. His hand still fisted in the front of your jersey when he pushed you back against the locker, lips giving way to tongues. You trailed a hand down his chest—toned. Jackpot.—and he shivered. Your heart failed to steady its beats. Reached out a blind hand for the hem of his jersey, and he broke away from you, peeled the jersey off over his head (That blonde hair. That goddamn blonde hair.) You did the same, jersey to the floor. And he was back on you, hips to hips, lips to lips. You'd rutted against him, impatient, impulsive. Demanding. Feeling his hardness on you. He gasped at your lips.

Mouths opened. Paused. Waited. Bursts of air. He caught your eye.

You nodded.

Understood.

Strong arms grabbed you and turned you over. Tugged down your pants to your knees. You're facing flat on the lockers, arms outstretched, hands clinging to the surface, ready, anticipating.

Lube? he asked, shuffling out of his pants, voice raw, sprinkled with sawdust, and you gritted your teeth.

In the jacket pocket, you pointed left to your duffel bag (good thing you were close to leaving before all this), taking the view of his cock out of the corner of your eye.

Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered. (In your head, because that's what mattered.)

He unzipped your bag, fumbled around, and found the tube. Squirting sounds. His hands at your hole, lubing you up. Contact, and you found yourself drained of air. He slipped two fingers in, stretched you out, opposite directions. You groaned, hands on the lockers shaking.

His arm brushed yours, brief, fleeting. Unspoken signal. He’d held onto your hips.

Sharp pain shooting through you when he entered.

Not so tight, aren't you? he grunted, and you moaned.

You're kidding yourself if you think I haven't done this before, you muttered under your breath.

He chuckled. Started thrusting. Slow at first, then faster when he sensed that you could take it. Gasping at each thrust, the sounds of skin, his on yours, echoed in your ears.

Yes. Fuck, yes. Come on, you were crying out.

What'd you say, he breathed, loud, thrusts harder and more frequent, What'd you say.

_Jesus, that felt good. That felt fucking fantastic._

I said I need more of you in me, you were yelling, voice strangled, I need your fucking cock, Pete!

A rush to the head. High on Phenylethylamine, that chemical released by the brain, that organic source of bliss. You'd shouted out the words at the end of a thrust. Your own voice incomprehensible to your ears. Your own words sounding distant and foreign to your lips.

It was all hard and fast then. You heard him groan when he came inside you, spilling into you. He'd pulled out, tip of his cock lingering at your hole.

You came a few breaths later, body sagging against the lockers, pleasure buzzing through your frame.

Fine. So you were an addict. So you wanted to be fucked, to take it up the ass. Beg for cocks to fill you up, stretch you out.

You loved it, no arguments, the chemicals spreading through you, post orgasm, the euphoria, the feeling of being detached from the world, for a while (a good long while).

He was looking you up and down, when you turned back around, picked up your jersey.

You grabbed a tissue from the few in his hand, cleaned yourself before pulling up your pants.

Who the fuck is Pete? he was putting his jersey back on, and you blinked.

_What?_

_What the hell did you say?_ you were asking yourself. (You had no control over yourself during sex, absolutely none.) You couldn't have. But you couldn't have.

Pete, he repeated, fully dressed now, blonde mop of hair still distracting. You'd yet to put on your jersey, the fabric seeming to shrink in your hands.

Was he your old Top or something?

Your lips tightened. You'd slipped the jersey on, brisk. Stuffed the lube back in your duffel bag and zipped it up. Put on your sneakers, slung the bag across your shoulder and walked out, blocked out his words chasing your back. Whatever kind of call he was making to get you to turn his way.

It was done, over. You'd had your fun, and he wasn't anyone to be remembered. You had hours, sessions. You didn't have relations. Complications.

_Who the fuck is Pete._

You'd had enough complicated in your life.

 

* * *

 

 

Is this the latest model? you were asking, finger tracing the leather. The epaulets, the zip pockets. The waistband with the belt, and the cuffs. Beautiful, beautiful. A must, if you'd ever seen one.

A must own. The kind of leather jacket that made your heart beat a little faster.

It's Saturday during Easter break, and you'd set your sights on the first leather jacket you saw in the Yves Saint Laurent store on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

It called. You rushed in.

This is our Classic Motorcycle Jacket, stated the store clerk, presenting you with the jacket, a Yes, of course, the latest model, added in answer to your question.

You handed him your credit card, no further considerations required, and waltzed out wearing the jacket over your black v neck top. The morning was cool, with the right amount of sun and the much longed for refreshing air.

You'd walked over to Tom Ford after that, bought yourself the entire set of your favorite Fall/Winter outfit—long rain coat, blouson, black merino wool turtleneck, tailored pants, cashmere socks, and calfskin boots. Burberry for their charcoal cashmere scarf, and Fendi for the Color Block Shawl. Prada last, because you tended to linger at the store. Took your time to choose among the products they had to offer. You'd been biased, partial to the brand, blaming it on their fine selection of models for recent seasons. Miuccia Prada had an eye for rising stars, it’d been said. You'd taken the campaigns to be aesthetically pleasing, and that was enough.

You emerged from the store two hours later, this time buying only the gorgeous lace-up boots, a pair for only a thousand bucks, a bargain for being so gorgeous in leather.

Shopping bags on your bodyguards' arms. All in a day's work. You'd flown in for a short vacation, a few days to recharge and start over. Forget. They called it retail therapy, and that, you could only report from pure experience, was far more effective than any therapist you'd gone to, wasted two hours and the same amount of money as a pair of Prada lace up boots on.

The uplifting feeling when you got to spend and own. When desires could be solved by trading, exchanging one thing for another. When money was the solution to a certain kind of simple, uncomplicated attraction. That transient state of pure pleasure, the kind that you felt pleased with yourself for. The kind you didn't have to give, but to keep on receiving. The kind that dissolved your inner turmoil, your goddamn problematic life that you refused to face.

Yes, you'd heard. Burying problems and setting them aside wasn't the wisest solution, thanks very much for the kind suggestion. You'd had too much to face, at your nonexistent home (if they said home was the place your heart was supposed to be, you weren't exactly sure where yours was), your pretend school (that you were attending for the sake of your name being printed on the transcript), and in your head (there were voices. You didn't know how to chase them away.) Too much to face, that you'd rather turn away from them. Give yourself a break. Give yourself another break. Give yourself more breaks.

(And so on.)

These little mental excursions. Escapism. Trips of the mind. You'd become good at. Play pretend when you were in a strange city as someone else. Someone who wasn't caught living your life. Adopt an identity, wash yourself over with happiness, fulfillment. Pamper yourself in fragrances (Chanel, no substitutes.), and skin products, (Cleanser. Body Scrub. Exfoliating foam, what have you.). (Let them say you were vain. This was who you were. This was where you'd found yourself. Appearing meticulous and sharp under the public eye was your personal goal. What others said were dust.) Indulge and bought yourself sought-after feelings which couldn't be earned otherwise.

This was the only way you knew how.

Since Peter had been out of your life, this was the only way you knew how.

 

* * *

 

I really don’t understand why you have to do this, Pete, you were saying, You don’t have to.

Yes, he insisted, pouting a little in that way you found indelibly irritating, I _do_ have to. Relieving memories, remember?

Pfft.

You were sitting on the carpet in your bedroom, crossed knees folded to your chest, arms resting on your knees, hand gripping a comb. Peter was right behind you, a hand holding up the hairdryer, another fumbling with your hair (more like messing it up).

You’d gone to the best hairdresser in the City, told them to keep it short, easy to style, and somehow ended up with bangs that you’d heard people gossip about behind your back. Your hair was thin, unlike Peter’s thick, unruly mane, which at least from your point of view, was in constant state of much needed combing and grooming. You used to call him out for his messy hairdo. He used to call you out for your too immaculately kept one.

Your hair was a cross between fallow and beige, his a dark chocolate brown. You’d stepped out of the shower, hair still wet, the small towel for drying your hair on your shoulder, a loose, plain white tee and stay-at-home shorts on. Peter had appeared from nowhere, the hairdryer in his hand aimed at you like a gun for an arrest.

Gotcha, he boomed, grinning like he’d won over the entire City’s heart, the way a certain infamous vigilante of a web-slinger had done. (Your Peter? He wished he could be him.)

You’d held up both hands high, an eyebrow arched, I don’t remember giving you the keys to my place, stranger.

Nah, I didn’t recall leaving, he roped his arm around your waist (warm. You didn’t remember being so self-conscious around him), pulled you over. The towel slid from your shoulder, and you both fell back down, asses flat on the floor, before you could protest.

Guess you locked me in.

Did I? you asked, leaning back, and realized you were almost in his lap.

(Wonderful.)

I don’t know, he whistled, handing you a comb behind his back, Maybe you wanted to keep me.

You? you jabbed a finger at his chest, left hand taking the comb from him. (Strange. He’d been working out since you left. Outlines of muscles, taunt, well-built. Gone was the lanky Peter, all bones and skin. This Peter was broad-shouldered, tall. And you, you’d barely changed, save for your (thank God) height.)

Why would _I_ want _you_?

(Ask: Why.

Answer: Could not be determined. Unable to be processed, translated from thoughts to words. Articulated, elaborated in full. Impossible to compute feelings and accumulated longings, coupled with continually spiking desires, the more the subject of the study was observed by the experimenter each day.

The question was simple, the reasons were not.

Want was a feeling, an emotion, to you. Want was usually solved, with money in your hands. Want was usually over, not prolonged, not a ten-year period of waiting, over faster than you’d realized when it started.

Want wasn’t left to lie dormant in the bottom of your heart, awaiting the exact moment to be ignited, rekindled, and bloomed in front of you.

Want was longing, was asking and getting, without having to try.

Want wasn’t seeing and realizing what you had missed, what you’d distanced yourself from (and for good, from the looks of it, entangling yourself with him again, pawning your heart to gather for yourself his.)

Want wasn’t a problem. You could still feel. You could still want, much as you wanted to want.

The problem was the _You_.)

He smiled, knew you were teasing.

Me, he began, plugged in the hairdryer and turned it on, I’m loyal, dependable, honest, He tilted his head in your direction, amused brown eyes hovering close.

He was waving the hairdryer over your head, fingers lost in your hair, and you let out a small, satisfied hum.

(Wasn’t this the way it was supposed to be? Wasn’t he the place your heart was? Wasn’t this it—home, or some fragments of what could be one?)

Incredible at science, he continued, hot wind blowing on your hair (you rolled your eyes. But he was. Yes he was.), Heartbreakingly handsome—

Hey, you raised a hand, stifling in a laugh, I don’t buy into false advertising, just so you know.

But don’t you think so? he leaned forward, cheek grazing yours, and you sucked in a breath, the whirr of the hairdryer still sounding in your ears, Girls just swoon at the sight of me, I’m telling you.

That grin, wide and toothy, that was the Peter you missed. Peter, the quick-witted introvert, being frustratingly playful around you, his best friend, the one who knew him most, while painfully shy around new people he was introduced to.

Yea, you muttered, sensing mild heat rise on your cheeks (Why, dear God.), Skip that part, I’m not interested.

(Yes, you were. Pretty much.)

A chuckle from him, and a murmur of a word you couldn’t catch.

Okay, how about this, he was back at his place behind you, hairdryer blowing over your hair for the last round.

I really care about you.

A coin dropped.

He’d turned off the hairdryer and put it aside. Your hair was back to its old self, and the room’s air was stark, radio silent.

Your heart drooped, and expanded, and drooped. Pulsing blood, and breaths seemed to come your way a bit harder.

‘Course you do, you dork, you muttered, sneaking in a punch at his arm, You’re my best fr—

And I probably love you more than any guy I know, Har, his arms crept in, took hold of your hips, and dragged you back up on his lap. (Shame on you for being the lightweight one he could manhandle.)

You were thinking you’d probably resembled a tomato at this point.

Sure, he did say ‘guy.’

But he said ‘I love you,’ argued your heart, adamant about stupid subjects, ‘I love you.’

( _I probably love you_ , to be precise. But _I love you_ , to approximate.)

Ha, silence, he was playing with a strand of your hair, Did I win?

His hands on your shoulders. You still sat, your back to him, and you kept asking yourself why.

He weaved his fingers into yours, just as you used to do when you were kids.

Flashbacks.

And your fingers interlocked. He’d filled in the gaps. Yours. You didn’t want to let go.

Will you keep me?

His lips brushed your cheek this time, lingering, and you turned yourself back around, leaned your forehead against his.

Inadequate as you are, you replied, mock seriousness in your voice, I’m going to have to take you in out of pity.

He chuckled, soft, and you decided to shut him up with your lips.

Stay, your lips were telling him, your kisses urgent and pressing, Stay.

 

* * *

 

He sipped his coffee, lips tainted with the black elixir, and you wanted to lean in and kiss it away.

He'd folded up his mask, just enough to drink the coffee you offered. You had to admit that this was doing things all in the wrong order, in getting to date a person, but your life was already a screw up, your relationships none progressing the way you wanted, and your future was nothing to look forward to. (Genetic inheritance. Thanks, Norman. You would have done with a company, had he left you with actual time to fucking manage it, not to fight for your life in the throngs of bloodsucking leeches of old age dinosaurs, led by that monstrous Menken.) Besides, what was there to discover, with a masked persona who was pretending to be a version of himself? There was a person under the mask he plainly didn't want for you and the world to know about, and you'd had too little time on your hand to bother. (Though you'd splurge to know, any amount of wealth you owned.) What was there to ask and understand, when the grounds you had, the grounds you shared, were limited and ridden with secrets, on both your sides?

You'd dropped into your favorite cafe, a quaint establishment just off Astor Place, the morning air still fresh around you. The City was up early, car horns and people rushing across the streets. Skyscrapers came alive and tourists flocking around the area. Another morning you didn't want to wake up to.

You rarely ever got down from the limo to pick up orders. Coffee Bean was an exception. The ristretto here, straight off the machine, was killer, and so was your occasional caramel macchiato with extra espresso shot. You'd barely slept last night. Circles under your eyes stared back at you from the mirror when you woke, the kind any eye cream could not salvage. You'd put on sunglasses (Tom Ford, for emergencies), and ordered Austin the driver (a cute Ukrainian ginger) to take you to the Bean.

Dopamine. Dopamine. Your pulse was throbbing. Feed me, feed me. I'm running low. Feed me, give me more.

The inviting odor of ground coffee beans struck you when you pushed the door and stepped in. You breathed, and sighed a little. Been a long time, and you couldn't have missed caffeine’s calling more.

Hey, Mr. Osborn. You want the regular?

Melliferous, high pitched voice, and you turned. Gave her a corner smile, the one you put on for the cameras, for the public.

Trina.

Adorable, petite sized girl of a barista. Early twenties, you guessed. Seemed to have worked here ever since you discovered the place. Spoke when she needed to, and she knew her cafe melange from her galao. Was quick with her orders, and hadn't failed you once.

You guessed it, you nodded, taking off your sunglasses, and walked over to the cashier. Drummed your fingers on the counter while you waited.

Here you go, Trina came over, her short pixie cut dyed this month in a blinding rainbow shade. You'd barely grabbed the paper cup from her when you heard a loud whoosh from the front of the cafe, a blur of red and blue passing by the windows.

She started to speak, but you'd rushed out. Caught him just in time.

Spiderman! Hey! Slow down! you were yelling. He'd flung himself toward the Bean's street, and landed in front of you.

You'd approached him, hand on heart.

Hey again, do you remember me…Harry Osborn?

He tilted his head, taking you in, and you suddenly were reminded of Peter Parker.

_Curious._

Of course, Mr. Osborn, he replied, voice muffled under the mask, It's you, how could I not?

Good answer. He knew what you wanted to hear.

You smiled, lips stretched wide.

Can I buy you coffee? you took his hand, eyes locking onto where you suspected his were behind the mask.

He hesitated, head turning left and right, and you'd reached for his other hand, joined them to both of yours.

Just one drink? Whatever you want, just sit with me a while. Won't be too long. Don't think there'll be crimes this early. Come on, I'm asking you.

(Some lightning storm would have happened somewhere. You'd never asked anyone, much less persuaded someone out of your own will. You never had the need to.)

I—he was glancing to somewhere behind his back, hands limp in your grip.

You squeezed his hands, For me? The Bean's amazing, you won't be disappointed.

You'd never tried as hard with anyone else, maybe because they weren't him, this complicated puzzle you were intrigued about, but didn't have the need to figure out.

If you wanted to, he said finally, allowing you to pull him in the direction of the cafe, I'll stay.

He took you by surprise at that word. Stay. What you wanted to tell Peter Parker the last time he was at the mansion, armed with a hairdryer and lame jokes (typical Peter). You paused, pondering, before leading him into the Bean.

You let go when he was in front of the counter. Clicked your fingers and gestured to Trina, who'd appeared from behind the counter at your call.

Give Spiderman whatever he wants, T, the tab's on me.

She nodded, about to take his order when you added, Keep this a secret, would you? There's already too much publicity as it is for us both.

Got it, Mr. Osborn, she mock-saluted you, You can definitely count on me. Turned on Spiderman then, asking, What'd you want, Mr. Spidey? We have everything caffeinated, even off the menu. Macchiato, flat white, americano, cafe viennois—

He was scratching the back of his head while she rattled off an eclectic mix of items from the Bean's selection, some of which you hadn't even tried yourself.

Uh, I'll—

He seemed out of place at the cafe, body twitching, kept shifting weight from one feet to the other.

You wondered if you'd forced him into this, but at least you'd gotten him here. In one place. For a period of time.

I'll have a black, thanks, he ordered Trina, hand rubbing his chin.

Pure black, you mean? she'd started to move toward the machine.

He nodded.

You'd led him to your table when he'd gotten his coffee. He sat across from you, paper cup in hand, masked rolled up just enough to drink the coffee, and did not utter a word.

(Rude. You'd just bought him coffee, after all.)

Gotta do the work yourself, damn it, Spiderman.

You ever been around this neighborhood? you began, Lower Manhattan. East of the 8th?

He took a big sip of the coffee and winced. (It's hot, you told him, broad grin on your face. He was cute in that klutzy way that Peter was. Cute. You’d labeled him cute, and you had yet to glimpse what he looked like.)

Sure, he answered, voice level, I've been around.

A pause. And he'd leaned forward, elbows on the table. You waited, listening.

I'm— I'm really not sure why you wanted me here, Mr. Osborn—

Harry, please, Spiderman, you waved a hand, We're that close. Added in a wink.

He seemed to jump a little, caught offbeat by your casual remark.

Harry, he repeated after you, grains of sand in his voice, I mean—I still don't—

You took his hand in yours, pressed your lips to the spandex, and glanced up at him.

Last. Night., you spelled out, smooth, deliberate.

His hand felt cold in yours, heavy for unknown reasons, and completely paralyzed.

(Okay, Spiderman, _okay_.)

After last night, you continued, fingers running over his palm, Did I really need a reason to?

It was impossible to search masked eyes, to decipher a face that was kept from you, a barrier between who he was and who you were, as presented to him, but you looked him in the eye anyway, aware that he was (because he was) watching you.

His hand shook against yours, and he coughed. I—

Difficult to tell if he was blushing underneath all that red.

I wanted you last night, and I still want you now, you added at his silence.

(If there was a saying you believed, it was that there wasn't really a The One. It was possible to fall for multiple persons at the same time. It wasn't a matter of choosing. It was, rather, how much your heart could take.

It wasn't an excuse, you told yourself, because how could you excuse yourself of attraction? Of want?

They just happened. They existed. They lingered. They teased. They begged, to be satisfied. They grew, these weeds encircling your heart.

And you weren't one to let them go unattended.

Pete, Spiderman. Different persons, different lives that diverged, different paths that were unlikely to cross.

You didn't care for reasons, not in your life right now. Time was running out, and reflection was off the list.)

Gestured at his coffee, half empty (you were that sort of person), Coffee's a good first step, right?

He still didn't answer, but the hand was squeezing yours.

You ran a hand through your hair, I know I skipped steps and went straight to the sex, but you gotta understand, I don't normally do this kind of—

He'd reached across the table, hand still in your grip, his free one cupping your cheek, and his lips went in for yours.

I don’t mind, he was whispering against your lips, breaths ghosting your face, Harry, I don’t mind.

 

* * *

 

The Internet was a fan's best friend.

A sprawling network, unlimited, spilling wealth of information. A library housing data and multimedia of almost every possible type. Communications and word of mouth that traveled through social networks' grapevines, sometimes faster than the speed of light. Links posted and liked and shared. Clips that went viral, shattered hearts, shocked minds, and evoked screams. Pictures that incriminated, praised, adored the captured. Words that could spark the spotlight on the subject or permanently shut it down. News that rippled from one agreeing, celebratory edge of a fandom to the protesting, dissatisfied edge.

You didn't know when it started (you should have seen the signs. The late nights. The too tangible presence on twitter. The relentless refreshing of tumblr and the tracked tags page. The vicious monitoring of your phone for any incoming piece of news.). You'd found yourself in too deep when it was already happening.

You were chatting to WebSlingerFan23 (using your pseudonym, of course) on speculating Spiderman’s possible whereabouts for tonight, had another tab opened to a YouTube clip (blurry, length of a vine. Waste of time. Terrible video. Disliked.), and a Daily Bugle Spiderman Gallery popped up in a separate page.

It was noon, but already a flood of news had poured in. An incident had happened downtown in the middle of the night, and fan captured clips and pictures had not ceased surfacing since you woke up. Your phone was buzzing with notifications, and you couldn't be happier.

A picture was a day being made. A clip was a week being made. A series of clips and a new Bugle release was an unofficial holiday. Today's combination of snaps, videos, news reports, and interviews of witnesses, was Christmas and New Year's rolled into one.

You were sitting on your bed, laptop opened on your lap, eyes concentrated on the screen, breakfast from hours ago still on the long table at the foot of the bed, when you heard someone clear his throat.

I—uh—I didn't know you were such a fan.

Shit.

Peter.

_Shit._

Caught red handed. You're fucked. You're totally fucked. No way around it.

A fan. A lover. A one night stand. An obsession. Ah overnight intoxication. An addiction.

Pete, I can explain.

(No, you couldn't.)

You didn't know you'd dropped your laptop at his voice and jumped up, spread eagled, in front of your life sized Spiderman poster at the left side of the bed (the first sight to catch when you wake up each day), in a vain attempt to cover up the red and blue, until Peter was asking, puzzled, eyebrows lost in his hairline, Har, what _are_ you doing?

Sweat. On your back. It was February.

(The heater was on, for God's sake.)

(Then there was the cut out model, the Hot Toys Spiderman figure on your desk, and the—

It's too late to brainwash your best friend's mind now, was it?)

Peter had picked up the Spiderman stuffed toy beside your pillow on the bed, and was studying it, intrigued. He was tracing his hand across the face, another tugging on Spiderman's paw. The stuffed toy's bulbous, bopping head, disproportionate to its much smaller body and tiny paws-as-hands, was staring back at him.

You'd snatched the toy back from his grip, and cradled it in your arms.

I'm sorry, you bit your lip, forced the words out with difficulty, your cheeks burning, body temperature rising enough to act as a substitute for the heater, I might have gone slightly...overboard with the whole Spiderman...thing.

Peter let out a few dry laughs, fingers mussing up his hair—what he'd always resorted to when his own nervousness became out of control. But it wasn't him who was guilty in this situation—it was you. You'd noticed pink dots appearing on his cheeks. Blush. His lips were pink, color rushing in like he was the one caught in the middle of his fanboying session in a room full of Spiderman memorabilia and limited edition fan merchandise (thank God for eBay).

It's—he was licking his lips, eyes thoughtful like he was searching for the proper words to say.

It's kind of...cute, actually, Har, that you've got all this going on.

Cute? your eyes widened, You don't think me crazy? you'd sat back down on the bed, shoulders relaxed, and grip on the stuffed toy loosened.

No, he shook his head, cheeks still flushing red (and you wondered why, but that could be saved for later investigation), and climbed onto the bed, on top of you, legs straddling your frame, I just don't understand why you don't love me half as much.

(The thing with Peter. After the hairdryer, after the kisses, he’d followed your lead. He’d given in, and you’d had your way. Friends with Benefits? You hadn’t decided.)

The stuffed Spiderman landed on the floor, forgotten.

You slid back along the length of the bed for more room (pushed the laptop to the other far edge) and he followed, clothed body sliding along yours, and you both gasped.

Somebody's jealous, you whispered, leaning up and brushed your lips at his nose. He'd smiled, eyes crinkled up, and you laughed.

Not, he pressed his lips to yours, too brief (but that'd mean he had other plans), That's your own speculation.

Is it, your fingers twisted themselves in his hair, your eyes focused on those chocolate browns.

I wouldn't know why I should be, he continued, cheeky grin on his face as he retreated back, hands on your bare legs. You'd taken to wearing shorts, having assumed it was going to be a morning by yourself. Time had slipped by, and it was noon, the scheduled meeting time with Peter, before you could change.

You've got these lanky legs, his voice vibrated against your skin. You’d flopped your head back on the mattress, let go of his hair, eyes shut, when his lips landed on skin, and you gave the most embarrassing mewl.

Cold. Wet lips pressing at your skin. Nipping and tasting. There was teeth; there was tongue. Small, teasing sucks up the length of your right leg. Your hands fisted in your blanket, a whimper from your lips, pants tight and breathing shallow.

Fuck, Pete.

Ah.

He bit down, licking the skin just below your thigh, and you trembled.

Red marks.

You'd tightened your grip on the blanket, forced yourself to stay still. It was taking a ridiculous amount of will not to thrust your hips up at him.

His other hand traced up your left leg. He'd crawled up to your knees, nosing around your thighs. His lips brushed past your crotch, and you were screaming unintelligible words.

And there's your posh, prep school boy voice, he breathed, hands tugging your shorts down to your feet. Took you into his hands (fucking finally, Christ.), slow (you'd get back at him for this), long strokes.

Peter Benjamin Parker, shut up and just suck me off, goddamnit, you were crying, hands clawing the mattress.

Middle name, he raised an eyebrow, quickened his speed, I'm in trouble.

You growled.

He'd chuckled again (too often now for your taste), and bent down, lips encircled the head of your cock, and you cried out a series of colorful expletives, one in French.

He started sucking, moist tongue wrapped around you, and you arched your back. Hoarse moans.

Don't— stop— was what you could managed, eyes rolled back and pleasure simmering at your nerves.

A kiss to the head, and he'd swallowed you in deeper, hands playing around with parts of you his tongue couldn't reach.

_Jesus._

And he kept on working, cheeks puffed out, teeth and tongue licking stripes along the length, a steady rhythm that took your breath away.

Pete.

You groaned, thrusting into his mouth. He’s bent down, his head level with your navel, crimson lips on your cock, hands on your thighs. And it was beautiful. Beautiful. The most breathtaking sight you'd seen.

Pete.

Shudders through your body, and you knew you were close. Sharp tugging at his hair, and he'd grunted.

Pete, I'm—

He swallowed, cleaned you up with his tongue after you came. Kissed his way to your chest (tiny shocks through the fabric of the striped t shirt you were wearing), nuzzling up to your neck.

His cock jutted out, tented in his trousers, brushed your skin ( _Oh, for the love of_ God) as he moved up your body.

Mere words wouldn't make sense even now.

Done what you wanted? you breathed, ragged. His nose grazed yours. An Eskimo kiss.

You know I'd only started, he panted, body rubbing against yours.

_Are you fucking kidding me._

Then finish it, you licked your lips, hand trailed to the back of his head and drew him in, lips enveloping his.

Tasted yourself on his lips, and the heat that seemed to have died down in your stomach started up again.

He flipped you both over, so you were laying face down on the bed, his frame covering yours up like a blanket. Whispered in your ear.

Sorry, but I don't think you'll remember him once I've finished fucking you.

 

* * *

 

Joyce had written in his novel _Finnegans Wake_ the phrase, "First we feel. Then we fall."

But when exactly did you fall, you wondered. Feelings occurred on a regular, daily basis, but falling was an incident. Falling was attachment to attraction. Falling was losing your grasp and giving up control. Falling was following impulses. Surrendering and becoming a slave to your own feelings. Falling was cutting loose. Was welcoming delirium and intoxication—of the body, of the mind—into your life.

Falling was admitting that you felt.

Falling was answering to your own excuses and facing whatever guilt eating you up inside.

Falling was seeing red and blue and chocolate brown.

They'd entered your life, become entangled in your heart. You used to shut down, close yourself. And they'd made it through, opened you up, forced their way in.

(He'd become a part of you. Again. Like he used to, years ago.)

You met. You felt. Then you fell.

You were the fool, maybe, for letting them in so easily, for allowing feelings to tip you over, push to to the edge, and set you up to fall.

Falling was dancing into the void, was playing a guessing game with the dark. Falling was asking ambiguity his answers and getting none in return.

Falling was lying. Was seeing the truth and lying to yourself. Falling was you trying desperately to hold onto whatever was left in the debris.

Falling was you begging to be taken, to be understood and listened to. Falling was catching flesh and blood and not material objects for your heart. Falling was relieving old childhood memories with a silly hairdryer and a pretend hairdresser who teased you with his lips. Falling was sitting in a cafe across the table from a stranger who fucked you from the night before and buying him coffee. Falling was letting your long-lost best friend into your personal space and frankly frightful fanboyish room decor, and watching a questionable blush form on his cheeks. Falling was wanting, begging him to have his way with you.

Falling was admitting that you felt.

Falling was realizing you had brought into your life complicated. Falling was holding on to entwined hands and refusing to let go.

Falling was feeling when he said, I love you.

Falling was feeling when you'd asked him to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. A Companion Piece. Who'd have thought. Hours and Hours spent lost in Harry's head were my days, couple of days in a row. Wrote everywhere again except my laptop (mostly). AH. 
> 
> Thank you so much again for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Criticisms and comments are always welcome and appreciated! They fuel a writer's heart :). <3
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> (Yes. There are references - the not-so-obvious ones include:  
> 1\. The Yves Saint Laurent Jacket  
> 2\. Trina & Coffee Bean, actual MCU canon pieces. Coffee Bean is also featured in my other AU, affogato al caffe :P)


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